


my soul in the flash of a camera

by mikkal



Series: at least I had the strength to fight [3]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Brotherhood: Final Fantasy XV, Father-Son Relationship, Hurt Noctis, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Torture, Nightmares
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-03
Updated: 2018-03-03
Packaged: 2019-03-19 02:14:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13694745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mikkal/pseuds/mikkal
Summary: Prompto pulls out his phone. He goes to Instagram. And he's faced with a picture of Noctis drugged and bloody. Which is weird, because Noct is sitting in class with him right now...An incident from Noct's past comes roaring back with a vengeance, sending him spiraling. It's up to his friends to help him through.(hurt!noct week day three prompt: someone takes and/or shares pictures of Noctis without his knowledge and/or consent)





	my soul in the flash of a camera

Surprisingly enough, the media doesn’t get a hold of it at all until about midday.

Prompto hears about it halfway through his first class.

The stares to class weren’t unusual. He’s been on the receiving end of those stares and whispers for at least a year now. In the beginning they use to bother him; Noct was so use to them it took him a couple weeks to notice Prompto’s embarrassment. Once that happened, though, they started taking a different hallway to their classes until he felt a little more secured, a little more confident.

Now he can ignore it all like a proper best-friend-to-the-prince should.

But now he’s sitting in class, in the middle closer to the back wall instead of near the windows with Noct—their teacher separated them one week into class and no matter how much the Prince of Insomnia pouted she just wouldn’t budge—and he sees two girls out of the corner of his eyes look at their phones, glance up at Noct’s back, then go back to whispering to each other.

He wrinkles his nose, frowning around the end of the pen between his teeth. Normally they giggle. Whenever people look at their phones then at Noct like that, a new gossip-y article was just published and they’re getting their fill. These girls, though, aren’t giggling and he doesn’t remember getting a notification about a new article. (He has a subscription to most of the tabloid sources, for a laugh usually.)

A nudge at his elbow jerks him away from the girls to see Mors from photography club raising an eyebrow at him. Prompto raises an eyebrow back, not even bothering to hide his confusion. Mors looks from his phone to Prompto and back again, wiggling both eyebrows meaningfully. He feels his phone vibrate in his pocket, wincing when it sounds out just a little too loud.

He waits for the teacher to turn back around towards her slideshow to pull out his phone. Sure enough, a text from Mors waits for him. Just a single one with a link for an Instagram account. With even more confusion building—seriously, he feels like he can’t get any more confused—he clicks on the link.

His phone takes a moment to connect, fighting through the shitty data of the school, and when it does he nearly drops his phone in shock.

The account’s simply called called 100fourteen_one, but the first and only picture is anything but simple.

It’s Noctis. He sits in a chair in the middle of an empty room. His wrists tied to the armrests, his legs tied at the ankles. He’s slumping to the side, just a little, with blood on his temple. The picture is in black and white, the only color of the whole thing being the blue of his eyes. They’re half-lidded and too bright. His whole expression is soft and vulnerable in a way that makes him feel sick to his stomach.

There’s three tags. #tooblueforyou, #blackandwhitephotography, and #princenoctis. It already has hundreds and hundreds of likes, luckily only thirty comments. Most of them expressing the shock that he feels.

As he’s staring, Instagram refreshes without his permission and another photo is there. This one in color, more blood drips from his hairline and there’s purple bruising around his eye.

Prompto swallows thickly. No. This—what the hell is this? He jerks to look at Noct’s back, to assure himself his friend is still sitting right there and not in some room, hurt and looking so out of it and oh-so young. In the here and now, his friend is curled over his desk, pen moving in either doodles or notes, glancing out the window every now and then with longing as the sun gets stronger.

He swallows the rising urge to puke. His hands shake as he copies the link and sends it straight to Ignis with absolutely no preamble. He’d send it to Marshal Leonis if he could. Someone needs to know about this. Someone who can do something about it fast.

His phone rings immediately. Ignis’ picture, the one with him in the oversized cat sweater Noct literally forced over his head, stares at him. He forces himself to hit decline.

[Ignis: 10.04a: What is this?]

[Prompto: 10.04a: i hve no ducking clue its been all over schoool]

Ignis doesn’t text him back. Prompto watches Noctis’ back, waiting for the moment his friend reaches for his phone having gotten a text from someone telling him what’s going on. But it never happens. Class goes on.

Prompto can’t stop the sick feeling in his stomach.

* * *

Ignis comes towards the end of their class, expression stoic and grim. A ‘glaive, an actual Kingsglaive, hovers over his shoulder.

“I’ve come to pull His Highness and Prompto Argentum from class,” he says, calm as you can be, handing over a slip from the office. Not that anyone is going to argue.

Prompto lurches from his seat, gathering his bag. He’d shoved his notebook away not long after never receiving a reply from Ignis, knowing he wasn’t going to get any note-taking done today. What he hadn’t expected, was getting pulled from class along with Noct.

Speaking of. Noct looks confused as he packs up his things, glancing from Ignis to their teacher, to Prompto, then back to Ignis. His gaze zeros in over his advisor’s shoulder, his eyes widening.

The whispers, a low hum before, swell into a buzz, a humdrum of bees. It follows them as they both stumble into the hallway, and Noctis hisses out, “What the hell is Nyx doing here? What’s going on? Is dad okay?”

Prompto checks Instagram again as Ignis patiently tells Noct that his dad is all right and that they need to wait until they get to the Citadel before he explains anything else. Prom knows Nyx Ulric well enough, through stories and the occasional time he has to guard Noct, and he notices the man is surprisingly quiet, professional, and worried.

There’s a third picture now. Still in color. This time, though, there’s no rope around his now bloodied wrists, some of it somehow shredded on the ground. Instead the rope is wrapped around his forearms several times and Noct grips the end of the armrests in a vice grip. His knuckles are shredded, his lip split, and he’s glaring at something just behind the camera with so much spite Prompto shivers in the present, thrown by the anger in his friend’s eyes.

With this new picture. With him looking alive and angry, it makes it obvious now, that this Noctis is years younger than the one now. Which, for some reason, proves this isn’t some clever photo editing.

Because, suddenly, Prompto’s remembering those few weeks, a year or so before Prompto got the courage to talk to Noct, that the prince had been missing. Abducted. He’d been thirteen. It had been all over the news.

“What is going on?” Noct demands again when they make it out the school. He’s pale and confused, expression pained. He doesn’t like secrets, he hates them, and none of them are talking, not even Prompto. “Answer me,” he orders, tone stern and regal. Every inch of royalty that Noct hates being.

“Wait until we get into the car,” Ignis says, softly, expression more open than Prompto’s ever seen. Noctis opens his mouth again, but Ignis shakes his head. “No, Noct, wait until we get in the car.”

Sir Ulric slides in the driver’s seat, leaving the back seat for the three of them. It’s open enough they’re not squeezed together; Ignis at one window, Noct in the middle, and Prom following up at the other window.

Prom’s phone is still clutched in his hand, unlocked and open to that horrible Instagram account. His palm is sweaty, heart thumping in his chest. He’s terrified by how Noct’s going to react when he sees the pictures. He’s expecting tears or anger, maybe fear.

What he gets, after Ignis explains in gentle tones what’s happening and uses his own phone to show the pictures after Noct says it’s okay…what he gets is silence. His expression goes blank, the lines around his mouth hardening as his lips thin. There’s no window for him to look out, so he tilts his head down, staring at his hands clasped in his lap.

“Noctis,” Ignis says, still with that gentle tone that sounds so comforting, but Noct’s shoulders tense. He reaches over and grasps Noct’s thin wrist in his hand, thumb pressed against his pulse point. “The Marshal is going to have to ask you some question when we arrive at the Citadel.” Noct doesn’t respond. “We’re going to have to pull you from school for the time being. And you cannot, under any circumstances, go back to you apartment.”

Noctis nods slightly with no argument. He leans his head back with a sigh, resting it on the back of the seat, eyes closed, bottom lip pulled between his teeth. Prompto shoves his phone into his bag then loops his arm through Noct’s, slides his hand down to pry Noct’s hands apart and tangle their fingers together. He rests his head on Noctis’ shoulder, his heart clenching when Noct sighs again, leaning his head on top of Prom’s.

They go to the Citadel in silence.

* * *

One more picture is posted while they’re on the road.

Noctis, of course, his arms tied and silver tape over his mouth. He’s glaring at the camera still, a newspaper sitting in his lap with the date. Prompto swallows, yeah, he was right. Thirteen. Just a few months before his birthday. The newspaper—he’s seen enough cop shows to know what that’s for.

Proof of life. Oh, Astrals.

Noct still hasn’t said a word. He’s always been a quiet guy, in the years Prompto lurked on the fringes and the year he’s actually known him, but this sort of silence is unsettling and oh-so wrong.

Guilt churns in his stomach as he refreshes the page again with one hand, the other one still clasped with Noct’s. His friend is squeezing harder now, his knuckles paling, and he’s sure it’s gonna hurt when his blood is finally freed to rush properly through the veins.

He blinks, eyes widening, when the screen declares the account no longer existing. He jerks forward to stare at Ignis. The chamberlain’s expression is harder than he’s ever seen, green eyes as sharp as jade, lips twisted into a frown. But he nods when he sees Prompto, a silent confirmation the account was taken down. He sighs in relief, leaning back against the seat.

Prompto jumps when he realizes Noct is looking at him through half-lidded eyes, the blue of them glittering slivers. His eyelashes are clumped together, wet with unshed tears. Prom sucks in a breath then sighs out an, “Oh, Noct,” and shifts so he can curl himself over his best friend.

Somehow they end up with Noctis’ legs thrown over Prom’s lap with his face buried in the crook of his neck. Prompto’s wrapped his arm around his back, the other wrapped around his front to curl a hand loosely over his hip. Ignis is there at his back, shoulder pressing between his shoulder blades, supporting him as Noct’s body starts to tremble, still distressingly quiet.

They stay like that, all three of them pressed as close as possible, all the way to the Citadel.

Ulric’s gaze flickers up at them through the rearview mirror every now and then, his own expression just as dark and shadowed, just as concerned. Prompto knows Ulric and Noct are friends, as close friends as they can get with the ‘glaive is normally on the other side of the wall and Noct has his royal duties and everyday life to attend to, and apparently they’re close enough that Ulric’s eyes are suspiciously shiny.

The Marshal is waiting for them in the underground garage Ulric drives into. He opens the door, raising an eyebrow at them all tangled up together, but he doesn’t say a word about it.

“Your Highness,” he says instead, voice low and soft.

Prompto drags a hand up and down his friend’s back. “Noct,” he murmurs. “We’re here.”

He feels more than sees Noct nod against his neck. They sit there for a moment longer before Noctis finally detangles himself from Prompto and Ignis. He scrambles out of the car, dusting off his school uniform as Cor puts a hand mid-back to guide him to the elevator, leaving the other three to follow behind. Prompto slings both their bags over his shoulder, lingering behind Ignis, with Ulric coming up the rear.

“He’s lucky to have you,” he hears Ulric say behind him. Prom glances back to see the corner of the ‘glaive’s lips twitch in an almost smile, but it falls flat. “I’ve been here for a while, I was here during that.” He tilts his chin down and raises his eyebrows, indicating the others. “It’s gonna be rough.”

“You’re gonna help figure out what’s going on, though, right?” Prompto practically begs.

This time, when Ulric smiles, it’s sharp and predatory. “Damn right I am. The Kingsglaive are pretty fond of our little star of a prince.”

And that’s all he needs to hear for a surge of confidence to wash through him. He hurries to the elevator, Ulric—Nyx, he guesses—right there with him. Noct’s face is pale, eyes red rimmed even though he hasn’t outright cried yet. His head is bowed, fringe shadowing his eyes, he glances up briefly when the elevator doors close, but that’s about it.

King Regis himself, and Lord Amicitia and a gather of Crownsguard (but not Gladio?), are waiting for them when the elevators open. The king looks weary and...older, leaning heavily on his cane and his eyebrows furrowed in the middle with concern. It’s so familiar, his facial structure and movement similar to Noctis.

Noctis sobs sharply at the sight of his father, breaking away from the people surrounding him to rush into the king’s arms. The older man staggers back, but he drops his cane and wraps his son in a tight hug, pressing his cheek against the crown of Noct’s head. His lips move with words, but they’re too quiet to make out. Noctis nods once, squeezes his dad, then steps away, scrubbing at his face with his forearm.

“Come,” the king says. “We’re not discussing this here.”

He puts an arm around his son’s shoulders, Noct wraps an arm around his dad’s waist, and they limp together towards an antechamber between this room and the Royal Gardens. It’s a pathetic sight. It hurts to think of it that way. But it really is. Son, barely sixteen. Father, only forty-five. Yet they both walk like old men worn down by life already.

Prompto lingers in the foyer, rubbing a hand over his mouth as he watches them all leave. A few Crownsguard stay behind along with Cor. Others usher nose-y councilmen away, and don’t come back. Only a couple of them follow the royal family, Lord Amicitia, and Ignis, including Nyx. This isn’t where he’s supposed to be, he knows that.

But then Lord Amicitia doubles back, clasping a hand on Prompto’s shoulder, his expression concerned but warm. “You’re welcomed to come with us, Mr. Argentum,” he says. “Noctis would have never even allowed you into the car if he didn’t wanted you involved.”

Prompto gives him a wobbly smile, warmth a flickering blossom in his chest. He adjusts their combined bags on his shoulder and shuffles after Lord Amicitia into the antechamber.

It’s a beautiful room, even if it’s small. Three walls are solid wood, adorned with paintings framed in the black and gold that the Lucian royal line is so fond of. The fourth wall is tempered glass, the thickness of it uneven on purpose to give the outside view of the elaborate garden a distorted sort of melancholy feel to it. A tiny table in the middle for tea, two couches on either side, a small armchair in the corner. It’s cozy, warm, a bit soothing.

The king and Noctis share one of the couches, Ignis takes the armchair, Lord Amicitia the other couch. Nyx and the three Crownsguard that follow take spots in each corner of the room, alert and stoic. Prompto hesitates but takes the seat next to Lord Amicitia, pressing his knees together and keeping his hands in his lap after he sets the bags on the ground, to the side of the couch out of the way.

“Any headway on the investigation?” Ignis asks, the first one to break the silence. Noctis jumps at the noise, his face flushing pink. Ignis winces in apology, but Noct isn’t looking at him.

Lord Amicitia clears his throat. “No,” he admits. “The ISP was being scrambled, jumping our tech through dummy lines until it wound up back with the Citadel’s ISP. We were able to disable the account, but, as of now, that is all we’ve been able to do. The email associated to the account was created in an Internet cafe in the Rose District several months before the Instagram account was created this morning at six forty-five.”

Noctis curls in on himself even more. Still so very quiet. Prompto almost gets up to go sit on his other side, but holds back. He sits there, awkward, unable to figure out what the protocol is for something like this. It’s only the second...third? time he’s been in the Citadel. He has no idea.

“Noctis,” the king whispers, a hand heavy on Noct’s back. “I know this is hard. We have the file from the original incident, but Cor would like to ask you a few more questions. If that’s all right with you?”

Prompto’s breath catches in his chest when Noctis glances up at him, eyes shining in the morning light. The sun that had been slowly coming is now greyed over with the threat of rain. Appropriate. He wonders, faintly, if Noctis would already be talking about what’s on his mind if Prompto wasn’t here.

“It didn’t hurt me,” Noctis says so quietly it’s barely a breeze. Everyone leans in as one to hear him better. He ducks his head. “It didn’t hurt me,” he repeats louder, firmer. “They were just pictures. I don’t...I don’t—.” He shakes his head, swallowing thickly. “I’m okay.”

He is very obviously not.  
  
“Noct,” Ignis breathes, his expression incredibly sad.  
  
Noctis covers his face both hands, bowing low until he’s practically folded in half. His shoulders shake and tremble, sobs rip from his chest. They’re unbelievably loud despite them being muffled, raw and full of pain.

King Regis drapes himself over his son’s back, shielding him from the world with his own body. He strokes his hand through his dark hair, whispering words in a language Prompto doesn’t quite understand. It could be Old Lucian, he’s pulling a solid B in that class but the Royal family has always known more. Or it could be another ancient language, maybe even a modern one that he just doesn’t know.

Whatever it is, Noct seems to calm down at the sound of it. He stays curled up, his face buried in his hands, but eventually, after minutes pass, his shoulders still, the sobbing stops.

Prompto clutches his clasped hands to his chest, eyes wide as he watches his friend breakdown surrounded by so many people. He’s seen Noctis get overwhelmed before, saddled by duty and fear for his dad. When that happened, Noct turned into either a mopey, sleepy mess or he raged, taking his anger out at the arcade with a FPS where he couldn’t hurt anyone if his anger got away from him.

He’s never seen this.

The Incident, as Prompto is starting to think of it, happened with little fanfare—which is weird considering how the media throws everything the royal family does out of proportion. Noctis disappeared one day, between school letting out and him being picked up. The media reported him missing, they spent hours on speculation and showing repeat videos of King Regis making statements. Statements that were recycled and misleading, but, in the end, it had been clear no one knew anything.

After three weeks, the Citadel reported Noctis was found and well. Two weeks after that, Noctis came back into the public eye, looking tired and uneasy, but alive and seemingly okay.

Now he knows that Noct was never okay.

When Noctis finally calms enough to scrub at his face with the palms of his hands, the king pulls away only to stay pressed at his son’s side. His face is blotchy, his eyes swollen and too bright, and his bangs stick to his forehead.

He pulls his bottom lip between his teeth, eyes flickering from each and everyone of them, making eye contact with Prompto before looking down at his lap. “I’ll talk to Cor,” he mumbles. “Can I—.” He swallows. “Can I talk to him alone?”

“Good, Noctis. That’s good,” the king says, though there’s a frown on his face. “Though, I don’t feel comfortable with you being alone. I trust Cor with my life, but—.”

“Nyx can stay,” Noctis says quickly, desperate. “Nyx…Please.”

The named ‘glaive bows his head low, mouth twisted in a concern frown. “Of course, highness,” he says, “if you’ll have me.”

Noctis is turned towards his father now, eyes wide and pleading. The king sighs and nods, looking reluctant, but Prompto guesses he doesn’t want to take away Noctis’ control right now.

Prompto tries his best not to feel a small stab of hurt that Noctis doesn’t want him to stick around. This is traumatic, he reminds himself firmly as he gathers their bags up and follows the king out of the antechamber. Of course he wants less people to know. He throws a glance back at his friend, heart breaking at the sight of him looking so small on that couch now that his dad isn’t there.

The Marshal is still outside in the corridor. The king leans in quietly to whisper something, the other man nods sharply once then marches into the garden antechamber, heels clicking in the silence.

If Prompto felt out of place then, now he just feels like an intruder. Especially when King Regis turns his full attention onto him.

“Prompto,” the king says warmly.

He all but squeaks. “Yes, sir, your Majesty.”

“Regis is fine,” he replies, a knowing twinkle in his eyes, like he knows Prompto is going to no way in hell call the King of Insomnia just Regis. “You are more than welcomed to stay in the Citadel in the duration of this...incident. Noctis won’t be leaving until it’s over and I know he’d be happier with you by his side.”

Prompto’s face burns hot, the blush reaching the tips of his ears. “If his Majesty is okay with it,” he says almost demurely.

A heavy hand rests on his shoulder, cold for a shocking second then warming up. He blinks wide-eyed up at his king.

“I’m perfectly okay with it,” the king says. “I’ll have a Crownsguard escort you home for a few things. Noctis will be in with Cor for a while.”

He nods, shifting the bags on his shoulders. “Thank you,” he says quietly.

The king shakes his head, squeezing his shoulder tightly. “No, thank you,” he replies. “Without you, without Ignis and Gladio. I don’t think my son will be able to handle this a second time around.

“Of course,” Prompto mumbles. Then, a little stronger, “Anything for Noct.”

The smiles the king gives him is proud and tremulous, his eyes wet. He squeezes Prompto’s shoulder one more time before a crownsguard comes over, standing at attention. Prompto lets himself be pulled away and ushered into the elevator, the doors closing on the sight of the king collapsing in one of the seats in the lobby and Lord Amicitia kneeling on the floor at his side.

* * *

Ignis knows he’s fretting. Stuck in Noctis’ rooms in the Citadel, cut off from the investigation and with no Noct to actually hover over, he doesn’t know what to do with himself. He doesn’t know how to prepare for Noct’s appearance, what state he’ll be in.

“Iggy, come sit down.” Gladio pats the free space on the couch he’s lounged out on. He’d been here when Ignis arrived, face tight with worry and anger. Apparently, he’d been bugging the crownsguard for information on the investigation with no gain. Gladio glares up at Ignis still standing awkwardly at the kitchenette. “Sit.”

And Ignis goes, sitting primly next to the Shield. They’re silent a long time, the television muted and the digital clock underneath it slowly ticking up. Neither of them know what to do, to be honest. When Noctis had been taken years ago, both of them were outside the Wall, in the wilds on the southwest coast of Cavaugh. If they had the time, they could’ve looked out and seen the Cavaugh Bridge and the hazy line of Leide on the horizon.

They came back to Noctis still missing, but only a day later did the Kingsglaive report finding Noctis in the Rose District, beat to hell and babbling deliriously, but alive.

The fall out had been something that haunted Ignis for years. And now it’s all coming back.

They both startle when the door clicks open, then relax when it’s just Prompto walking in with a duffle over his shoulder and two book bags in hand. He looks just as surprised to see them waiting as they are to see him. He tosses his duffle on the ridiculously large bed and sets the books bags on the counter that makes up one-third of the walls of the kitchenette.

“He’s not back yet?” Prompto asks worriedly.

Gladio shakes his head. “Soon, probably,” he replies. “There can’t be new stuff to tell the Marshal about. Nothin’s happened since then.” He scoots closer to Ignis, their sides pressed together, and gestures to the space he just made. “C’mon, take a sit, kid.”

Prompto hesitates only for a second. The couch isn’t made for all three of them, especially with Gladio’s bulk taking up most of the room. It’s a tight fit, but none of them complain. None of them speak. Prompto picks at the palm of his hands. Ignis drums his fingers on the arm rest. Gladio tilts his head back, heaving a gusty sigh as his eyes close.

That’s how they’re set up when the door clicks open again. Prompto practically jumps to his feel, Ignis not far behind, when Noctis shuffles in. Cor’s face disappears behind the closing door.

He’s pale minus the pink blotches high on his cheeks and the redness around his eyes. His hair is limp, curling around his face, from running hand hands through the black strands. And he shakes as he curls his arms around his stomach in the mockery of a hug.

He looks so small and alone, standing there. They hold back, awkward and not wanting to overwhelm him. Noctis has always been quiet, ever since he came back from Tenebrae, but this is another thing altogether.

Ignis approaches him, hands out as if to show he means no harm. “Noct,” he says gently. He flinches, glancing up at his chamberlain through his eyelashes. “May I hug you?”

Noctis visibly hesitates, shuffling back just a bit, before he bites his bottom lip and nods. Ignis wastes no time gathering him close, wrapping his arms around his shoulders. Noctis presses his face against Ignis’ shoulder, his own arms still on his stomach. He breathes in sharply, gasping out the exhalation.

He rubs a hand up and down his trembling back, pressing his cheek on the crown of his head. Prompto hovers close by, wringing his hands together and looking nervous. Gladio is right there too, a little more reserved with his concern, but still obvious.

“How about I make you some hot chocolate,” Ignis murmurs. He makes eye contact with Prompto and tilts his chin down. He steps away only to be replaced by Prompto practically smothering his friend in affection.

Prompto leads him to the bed, shoving his bag off none too carefully, and urges Noctis to lay down. The blonde curls around him, cocooning his head with his arms. Noctis leans his forehead on Prom’s collarbone, closing his eyes with a sigh.

Gladio stands at the end of the bed as Ignis pulls out a sauce pan and starts on the hot chocolate. The Shield rolls his eyes, huffing fondly, bending over to tug off both their school shoes, setting them to the side. He sits on the edge, hand heavy on Noct’s calf. He looks up at Ignis, turmoil brewing in his eyes.

Ignis walks over with three mugs in hand, only to find Noctis fast asleep. Prompto gives him a wry smile, small and wobbly. Ignis shakes his head, setting two of the mugs to the side and handing the other to Gladio. The Shield takes it with a nod of thanks, sipping it slowly.

He grabs his own cup from the kitchenette then sits on the other side of the bed. The two of them bracketing their youngest friends. Ignis drinks his hot chocolate just as slowly, watching Noctis sleep. It isn’t a peaceful sleep, his eyes flickering under his lids and breathing quick and sharp. He clutches at Prompto with white knuckles, tugging on him with very little force that probably translates to yanking in his dream.

Gladio clears his throat, drawing Ignis’ attention. The Shield looks torn and out of his depth. He mouths a very clear ‘what do we do?’ that Ignis can only answer with a shrug. There’s nothing they can do, except be here for Noct and keep him calm and healthy. They won’t let them into the investigation, for several reasons, so they can’t do anything to help him in that area.

“I think a chickatrice rice bowl is on the menu tonight,” Ignis says quietly. That’s all he can do. One of Noctis’ favorite dishes, one of the few that’s not a sandwich now that he thinks about it. A good comfort meal, if anything else. Gladio nods in approval.

Noctis takes that moment to stiffen, then jerk awake, throwing himself away from Prompto and nearly falling off the edge of the bed if it weren’t for Gladio shoving his drink on a hard surface and grabbing him. Noct yelps, struggling against his grip, grunting when Gladio holds on, whining when he doesn’t let go.

“Gladio,” Ignis warns sharply.

The Shield releases their prince like he’s been burned. Noctis takes the opening for what it is and scrambles off the bed, stumbling over his feet. He stands there, shaking and panting, chest heaving with his bangs shadowing his eyes. Prompto makes an aborted movement towards him, on his knees on the bed and hand outstretched.

Ignis sets his own drink aside and gets up to carefully approach him. “Noct,” he says softly. “You’re safe. You’re in the Citadel. It’s just us.”

Noctis shakes his head, sighing deeply. “I know,” he croaks outs. He scrubs at his face roughly, hands coming away from a reddened face. He looks at Ignis dead on, eyes bright in fear and shame. “Sorry,” he says weakly.

“Don’t be stupid,” Gladio says. Prompto makes a noise of protest. Gladio waves a dismissive hand at him. “Nightmares are a bitch, don’t be sorry.”

Noctis laughs, slightly strangled but perhaps actually genuine. “Yeah, you’re not wrong about that.” He runs a hand through his hair, shoulders sagging.

“You wanna talk about it?” Prompto asks from his now cross legged position on the bed. He looks like he regrets asking.

His expression twists, wincing. “No?” he ventures. “Not really. Do I have to?”

Ignis shakes his head, sharp and firm. “Of course not,” Ignis tells him. “But we’re here if you want to.” The grateful look Noctis gives him erases any urge Ignis has to convince him to tell him everything. “I’m about to make some chickatrice rice bowls, would you like to help?” Noct nods, grinning.

Prompto groans, clutching his stomach. “That sounds amazing. I’m so hungry I could eat a behemoth. The biggest kind...Gladdy, what species are you part of again?” He yelps when Gladio shoves him over. They get into an impromptu wrestling match, both of them tipping off the bed and landing in heap on the floor, but it doesn’t stop them.

Noctis snorts out a laugh, his expression clearing and his eyes brightening in mirth. Ignis smiles in relief then urges Noctis into the kitchenette, directing him to start chopping onions. Both of them ignoring Prompto’s cries as Gladio pulls him into a headlock and digs his knuckles into his skull. The blonde slaps his hand on his bicep, tapping out frantically. Gladio lets him go. Prompto jumps to his feet, pauses, then shoves his foot against Gladio’s shoulder, sending him splayed out of the floor. He books it, scrambling into the kitchenette before Gladio can get up to catch him.

Ignis raises the bag of rice over his head as Prompto dashes around him and cowers at Noct’s side, using him as a shield. Gladio charges towards them, skidding to a stop when he notices the three bodies in the tiny space with Ignis and Noctis blocking his way to his target. Ignis raises an eyebrow at him, daring him to even ask them to move.

Noctis is laughing into the onions, crying from the fumes and from laughing so hard. Prompto watches his face with a soft expression, smiling warmly. Gladio grins smugly. Ignis rolls his eyes, but even he’s smiling in relief.

They work in silence after that. Ignis gives Prompto the option of helping cook or going to watch television with Gladio, the blonde chooses the show and curls up on the couch with Gladio. They eye each other warily, but concede their battle and focus on making fun of the main character every time he gets shot at. It’s soothing to work besides Noctis. He’s not the best cook on Eos and most of the time he avoids making food like the plague, but when he does willingly help Ignis, he’s precise and dutiful. Perhaps a little too much so, if how long he’s taking with that onion means anything, but Ignis is not about to complain. Not when this is the most content Noctis has looked all day.

Noctis’ phone chimes with a message. He puts the knife down and wipes his hands on a towel, wandering out of the kitchen. The three other’s phones chime seconds later. Ignis pulls his phone out immediately, swiping for the message. It’s from an unknown number.

[Unknown Number: 13.16p: XD!]

What on Eos? Ignis looks up, baffled, to see Prompto and Gladio just as confused. He turns to Noctis, wondering if Noct received the same message, only to find him staring at his phone with a look of horror, his face pale, eyes wide, his hand shaking.

“Noct?” Prompto asks.

He flinches violently, phone falling from his grip. It hits the ground face up, showing a video on a loop on Instagram. Noctis slaps a hand over his mouth, choking, and runs into the bathroom, slamming the door shut. Prompto is there immediately, knocking on the wood and calling Noct’s name.

Gladio scoops up the phone roughly, his hand hitting the volume buttons on the side. They’re treated to the sounds of screaming, specifically Noctis screaming, and the crack of snapping bone. Ignis yanks on his arm to bring the screen closer. Another Instagram account. 100fourteen_two. The first photo is that black and white one again, but the second post is a video on a fifteen second loop, someone artfully shadowed breaking the same finger on Noct’s left hand over and over and over and over again. Ignis shoves Gladio’s arm away, feeling sick, bile building in the back of his throat.

Another picture loads a split second later. Noctis, unconscious, the fingers of his left hand mangled beyond recognition. #princenoctis.

Before either of them can say a word, Gladio unthinkingly refreshes the page and the account has disappeared.

Gladio growls, shoves the phone at Ignis, and marches over to the door, knocking along with Prompto’s careful tapping. “Noctis,” he calls, concern overriding the anger. “Noctis, open up. C’mon.”

Ignis feels cold as he presses the back button, taken from the Instagram page to Noct’s message box. A single message sits there, from the same unknown number with a link to the account. His hands shake as he dials the Marshal.

“We’re already ahead of you, Ignis,” Cor answers roughly. There’s someone shouting in the background. “Is his Highness okay?”

Prompto’s getting more frantic the longer Noct stays silent. Ignis’ heart beats wildly in his chest and he has to swallow around the lump in his throat.

“Perhaps that’s a question for another time,” Ignis replies. “That’s not why I called.” He takes a deep breath. “I received a text message seconds after Noctis was sent a link to the account. They were both from the same unknown number.”

Cor is silent on the other line for a long moment, then: “What’s the number?”

Ignis tells him dutifully then hangs up with barely any preamble. He wedges himself between Prompto and Gladio, practically pressing his ear against the door. He hears water running, like rain so it’s the shower, and a faint retching noise. The door is locked, of course.

“Noctis, please,” Ignis begs. “Let us help you. The account’s been deleted. The Marshal is looking into it.” Silence. “Noct?”

Prompto exclaims then dashes away to rummage around in the study room. He comes back with an unbent paperclip and an old school ID. “With your permission,” Prompto says almost sheepishly.

Gladio steps away, gesturing pointedly. He waits, though, until Ignis hesitates then verbally gives him the go ahead. Noctis might hate them for the intrusion, Ignis will take the fill blame.

The blonde kneels down and with a click, turns the knob to push open the door. A billow of steam nearly knocks them back. The showering going on full heat. Ignis fears Noctis will be in the shower, only to find him curled around the toilet, clutching it with all of his strength, his face the sort of pale not even the heat can put color to.

Gladio turns off the shower. Prompto hovers outside. Ignis crouches next to his prince, a careful hand between his shoulder blades. He flinches, sobbing, his fingers turning white as his grip somehow gets tighter. Ignis peers into the toilet, only finding bile and mucus. His chest clenches and he sighs. Carefully, he tugs Noctis back, letting him rest against Ignis as he flushes the toilet.

Noctis is shaking, dead quiet except whimpers he can’t seem to hold back. With him no longer clinging to the toilet like a lifeline, his hands wring together and he starts fiddling with the fingers on his left hand. The ring and middle fingers are a little misshapen, a result of getting a potion in him too late for it to be perfect. And Ignis knows sometimes that hand aches when it’s cold, adding to the pain he’s already use to.

His hair is stuck to his slick face, his eyes brimming with tears. Ignis brushes a hand over his forehead, trailing his fingers down his cheek.

“They can’t get you here,” Ignis says softly, firmly. “All of them are serving life, you saw to that.” Noctis leans into the touch, eyes fluttering close, forcing the tears down his cheeks.

Noctis twists in his hold, pressing his nose against Ignis’ shoulder. “I...I just want it to go away,” he mumbles into his shirt. “I thought it was over.” He sobs brokenly. “I just want it to be over.”

Gladio stands over them, shimmering in barely contained rage. The only reason he hasn’t punched something right now is because he doesn’t want to put a dent in the wall. Prompto stands guard at the door, not quite the bulk of the Shield, but he’s doing his best. His shadow plays over Ignis and Noctis on the ground, causing Noctis to glance up. He seems to relax at what he sees, either at the sight of Prompto or the idea that someone is between him and the outside world.

Prompto’s fiddling with his phone absently. He freezes, eyes wide. “Oh come on,” he says under his breath. “Gladio.”

The Shield climbs over them obediently, Prompto’s tone leaving no room for snark. He glances at the phone screen then swears loudly. “You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.”

Noctis starts in his arms. Ignis holds him tighter, hand coming around to presses his head against his shoulder. The prince strains for a minute, but then he slumps into the hold, shaking.

Gladio takes the phone from Prompto’s trembling, suddenly lax grip, and turns the screen towards Ignis. The Godsdamn account is back already. 100fourteen_three. The black and white photo. And now a picture of Noctis slumped over severely to the side, his expression blank and faraway, his eyes unfocused. His forehead is shiny with sweat, his face gaunt—something he hadn’t noticed in the last photo, he faintly wonders of the timeline—and his lips are covered in more scabs than not. The angle of the photo gives a clear view of the inside of his elbow, showing off the bloody puncture wounds and a peppering of dark bruises.

Ignis clutches Noctis tighter, the sudden pressure causing Noct to grunt in surprise. He feels him trying to pull away, but, no, Ignis won’t subject him to this. Not again. If there’s only one way for him to protect him now, he will do it with all his power.

“No, Noct,” he says quietly, unable to take his eyes of the phone even as the screen is pulled away from him. “Please. Don’t.” Noctis whines high in the back of his throat and doesn’t try again.

Prompto sucks in a breath at whatever Gladio is showing him, crying. He stumbles away from the door into the main room, covering his mouth. Gladio hesitates then turns the phone back to Ignis.

It’s another video on a thirty second loop. Noctis shouting silently, his wrists bleeding, his hand mangled, tears on his cheeks. He jerks and throws himself around in his restraints, mouth moving in muted words. Someone’s attempting to stab a syringe in his arm, failing two times with missed marks that come up bruises, until they get his vein and inject whatever it is into his system. He struggles for a few more seconds until his movements grow weaker and weaker. The video cuts off just as his lashes flutter and his eyes roll up in the back of his head.

All four phones chime, another unknown number according to Prompto’s contacts, but this time Ignis recognizes Cor’s number when the message pops up at the top of thescreen, informing them the account was taken down again just a few seconds ago.

“‘s another account, isn’t it?” Noctis mumbles. He’s still in the same position despite the fact Ignis loosened his hold before the video actually played. When nobody answers he sighs. “That’s a yes.”

He tugs on Ignis’ shirt. Ignis jumps, the twinges from sitting on the tiles for too long letting themselves be known. He sighs, resting his chin on top of Noctis’ head, closing his eyes briefly.

“Let’s get you up,” he murmurs, reluctantly. Despite the aches, being here, in this tiny room where no one could be hiding behind them, where he has Noctis safely in his arms and Gladio still standing at the doorway, is the safest he can probably keep Noctis at this point. But if Ignis hurts, then he can’t imagine how Noct feels. “Prompto will be more than happy to cuddle you. I’ll finish up the rice bowls, remake you some hot chocolate. Does that sound all right?”

Noctis lets out a broken laugh into his shirt. “I could go for some cuddles,” he says. “But I’m not so hungry.”

Ignis sighs, exchanging looks with Gladio. He saw that coming from a mile away. Either way, he shifts and stands, helping Noctis up. His knees quake under him, but Ignis is there to keep him steady. They find Prompto already changed into a pair of lounge pants and a tank top, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth and stimming with the ever present leather bracelet around his wrist.

Gladio shoves some sweats into Noctis’ arms, they turn around to give him some privacy and only turn back when they hear the shuffling of someone sitting on the couch. Prompto sits with his shoulders against the armrest, slouching, and his legs stretched out. Noctis lays over him, using Prom’s stomach as a pillow. Tears fall silently down his cheeks, his shoulders shuddering as Prompto drags a hand up and down his spine.

Ignis wipes his face roughly, running his hand through his hair. He slumps against the counter island blocking off part of the kitchenette. He should make the rice bowls even though he’s a hundred percent sure Noctis is just going to fall asleep again, drained by all the stress and emotions of the day. The three of them still need to eat, and maybe he can coax Noct to eating when he wakes up. If he wakes up again today.

He gathers the discarded mugs near the bed. Gladio joins him, taking over Noctis’ onion cutting. His dicing a little more haphazard.

They work with the television playing quietly in the background and Prompto murmuring softly to Noct, even as the prince slowly falls asleep.

* * *

  
[Unknown Number: 03.42a: XP. XD. ??]

Seconds after Gladio checks his phone, all four of them chiming and three of them slept through, and sees the message, he goes to Instagram and finds the new account 100fourteen_four.

Of course, the damn black and white photo is there, mocking him, but now the second photo is of Noctis. Thinner, gaunt, disturbingly dark bags under his eyes and blood dripping off his chin from the cuts in his lips and the blood blooming from his nose. The redness is broken up by streaks of clear skin, Noctis’ tears cutting lines through it. A newspaper sits in his lap, reading two weeks into him being taken off the streets like a stray dog.

Almost automatically, he refreshes the page, expecting another picture or one of those terrible videos, only to find a gray screen and a message telling him the account’s been deleted. Oh, good, they’re getting faster at getting rid of them. If only they got faster at figuring out who the hell is doing this. It can’t be one of the bastards that took Noct in the first place, all four men has been caught within the first twenty-four hours after Noctis escaped. His prince being able to ID them without fail and only a little bit of emotional wavering.

He sighs and sets his phone face down on the coffee table, rubbing his gritty eyes. At some point in the night...day (because Noctis fell asleep around two in the afternoon and barely moved an inch except once), Prompto and Noct were convinced to move to the bed where they curled up around each other like kittens in the sun. Prompto, particularly, wrapping himself protectively around Noct. Ignis and him took the couch.

Speaking of. Ignis is slumped against his fist, elbow on the armrest, his glasses lopsided on his face. He snores lightly, eyelashes fluttering. Gladio snorts fondly, reaching over to carefully slide them off his face and set them on the coffee table.

He stands, stretching until his back pops. Quietly he uses the toilet then shuffles out, heading to the bed first to check on the two youngest in their little group. Prompto’s no longer curled up around Noct; he’s splayed out stomach down, one hand dangling over the edge of the bed and the other hand palm flat on Noct’s chest right over his heart. Noct’s on his back—which he’s going to regret later, he just knows it—his face turned towards his friend, hand thrown out with the back of it resting on Prompto’s cheek, fingers twitching sporadically.

There’s no other messages waiting for him when he checks his phone again. Nothing from Cor, nothing from Nyx, and nothing from an unknown number. He sends Cor the number from the message earlier along with a demand for an update. Despite the early hour, he knows the Marshal and the Kingsglaive are working unrelentingly through the night to figure out just who is doing this to their prince.

Gladio just feels so useless. He’s a Shield. He’s there to block attacks towards his prince—his future king—and yet, he can’t do anything to help Noctis now. Cor won’t let them into the investigation, citing them too young and too inexperienced. How the hell are they suppose to get experience if the Marshal won’t let them in?

He groans, scrubbing his face with both hands and leaning back in the couch cushions with an annoyed huff.

[Cor Leonis: 04.23a: No leads. Emails for the account were still made in the Rose District. ISPs are still redirecting to the Citadel. Numbers are from burner phones.]

Gladio tosses his phone aside in disgust. Meaning there’s no good news to tell Noctis when he wakes up. Absolutely nothing. Unbelievable. There’s about two hours left until this mess hits the twenty-four hour mark and they’ve made no headway at all.

Noctis whimpers in his sleep, whining as he shuffles over on his side, clutching Prom’s hand in a two hand grip like it’s some sort of plushie. Gladio tenses, glancing over, refraining from jumping to his feet and going over immediately. Prompto is right there, he’s got experience with Noct’s nightmares and is a hell of a lot better at comforting people than he is. Having a big, hulking figure leaning over him in the middle of the night probably won’t end well for any of them.

He murmurs something in his sleep, words slurring and mushing together so badly Gladio can’t tell what they’re supposed to be, only that they’re frantic and distressed. His eyes flicker under his lids, his lips parting as he pants like he’s run a marathon. He pulls Prompto’s arm closer, curling around it. Prompto grumbles, eyelashes fluttering. He opens his eyes, dazed and confused for a second before he blinks and his expression clears.

Prompto jerks up, just barely managing to not take his arm back from Noct’s grip. He places a careful hand on his shoulder, whispering Noctis’ name. Noctis just moans out a long, drawn out “no” and slightly hysteric “please, don’t.” The clearest words he said in the last ten minutes. Prompto looks around, at a loss, making eye contact with Gladio in the dim darkness broken only by the light above the stove in the kitchenette. He blinks in surprise at someone else being awake, then his expression turns pleading.

Gladio sags, getting up from the couch and sitting on the edge of the bed instead. Noctis tosses and turns, his expression twisted in pain, hair sticking to his drenched forehead. Prompto cards his fingers through the black strands, calling his friend’s name softly. Gladio, not really sure what to do, rests his hand on Noct’s shin, rubbing this thumb in soft circles on the skin that’s exposed from his pant leg bunching up over his knee.

A rustling behind him, tells him Ignis is up and about, specifically behind him. His hand is warm where he touches Gladio’ shoulder as he passes to kneel down near Noct’s head, resting his elbows on the mattress.

“Noct, time to wake up,” Prom gently urges. “It’s just a nightmare. I promise.” His hand stills on the crown of his head. “You’re safe. Come on, Noct. Wake up.”

Noctis jerks awake, rolling over until he’d be nearly off the bed if not for Ignis bracing him. Noct flinches against the touch and shoves at him, pulling away until he hits Prompto instead. He flails, shouting. Ignis gets smacked in the face, his glasses slipping from his nose. Prompto earns a knee in the stomach. Gladio just barely avoids getting kicked.

Prompto grunts, doubling over for a second of recovery, but then he’s right there at Noct’s side again. He doesn’t restrain his friend, just careful brushes along his arm.

“Noct, you’re safe. You’re safe!”

And, suddenly, he’s lunging towards Prom, wrapping his arms so tightly around his stomach Prompto grunts again at the force and in surprise. He’s babbling into his tank top, bunching the fabric in his grip.

“Make ‘em stop,” he begs. “Make ‘em stop. Please.”

Prompto hugs him over the shoulders, bowing over him. “They’re gone,” Prom says, voice trembling. “You’re safe. It’s just a nightmare.”

As if on cue, all four of their phones alerting them at once. Noctis’ following up with a second message.

“No,” Noctis moans. “No. No. No no nonono. Please. Please. No.”

[Unknown Number: 5:02a: so cool right!]

“Just tell Cor,” Ignis says firmly. “We don’t need to look at it. Honestly, we shouldn’t have been looking at them past the original three. It’s an invasion of privacy.”

And so they don’t. Gladio messages Cor the link he finds through Instagram and the number attached, but he doesn’t look beyond noticing the second post (the first post still that damn black and white one) is a video. Nausea coils in his stomach. Ignis is right, they shouldn't have looked. Especially with Noctis around, especially when it was causing him so much distress. How stupid could they be? How could Noctis ever forgive them for that?

Ignis rubs a hand between Noct’s shoulder blades. “Do you need anything, Noct?” he asks like he’s not really expecting a proper answer. He sighs when Noct shakes his head, face not visibly pressed against Prom still. “A hot drink, maybe? A sleep aid.” Noct’s shoulder curls towards his ears at that and he makes a sound. Ignis latches onto it. “Do you want a sleep aid?”

He hesitates, then nods, pulling away from the comfort his friend is freely giving. Prompto lets him go reluctantly, biting his lip and looking unsure. Gladio understands the feeling. He knows Ignis keeps a tight lid on the prescription sleep aids Noct was given after Tenebrae, not wanting his friend to rely on them. But he also knows that Ignis would never let Noct suffer. It seems ridiculous for Sleeping Beauty, the Narcoleptic Prince to need a sleep aid, but, honestly, when times are tough and he stresses enough, no matter how drained he gets he just can’t sleep.

Gladio sort of knows the feeling.

Ignis leaves them there, grabbing the proper dosage from the cabinet in the kitchen and a glass of water. Noctis slumps against Prompto wearily, blinking slowly. Gladio clasps a hand back on his leg, thumb going back to those comforting circles. He earns a wobbly smile for that, Noctis meeting his eyes with those pretty blues wet with unshed tears.

“They’re going to find them Noct,” Gladio says with as much conviction as possible. “Everyone who cares about you is looking into it and you know they won’t stop until they figure this out.”

Noctis nods, that smile still trembling on his lips. “I know,” he rasps out. His hand is clasped in Prompto’s, Prom’s free hand on his opposite shoulder. “It’s just...terrifying,” he admits roughly. “I feel so out of control.” His voice wobbles.

Gladio is ninety-eight percent that is the biggest understatement of the year. He pats Noct’s leg, his foot swaying with the movement.

“You have us,” he says. Prompto nods over Noct’s shoulder. Gladio smiles grimly. “You have us.”

“Indeed.” Ignis appears over his shoulder, white pills and a glass of water in hand. “And you won’t get rid of us that easily.”

The small but relieved smile is worth more than anything Gladio has in his possession, on hand or even at home.

They manage to get Noctis comfortable and asleep in record time. He somehow convinced them all, with sleepy eyes and slurred speech, to pile onto the bed like a litter of puppies; Gladio and Ignis bracing them on either side and Prompto wrapping his arms around Noct’s middle, pulling him flush against his chest.

Noctis had spent a few minutes fighting the sleep aid, sleepily asking them if there was any progress on the investigation, only to receive and hesitant negative from Gladio. He fell asleep then, defeated and afraid. The last things any of them wanted for him.

The three of them stay up longer, at least until the sun peeks over the horizon—Gladio staring at the ceiling, Ignis tapping on his phone, Prompto with his eyes closed and his nose buried in Noct’s hair.

“Whoever’s doing this is one suck sonovabitch,” Gladio finally says after there’s more light than not shining through the large room of Noct’s room. “I mean, sending us texts? Sending Noctis actual links? He’s laughing at us. Are we sure we got every bastard from the initial incident?”

Ignis hum, resting his phone face down on his chest. “Yes. Noctis said four men. He ID'd all four men the ‘glaives found. There was nothing to indicate a fifth.”

“Isn’t that how movie plots go?” Prompto mumbles suddenly. Gladio hadn’t actually been sure he was awake. “There’s always fifth man, even if the narrative doesn’t tell you. It’s just a terribly written plot twist that shows up with no foreshadowing at all.” He huffs. “I call that bad writing.”

Gladio chuckles. “You got it all figured out, don’t ya, kid?”

“Of course I do. You doubt me?”

“Perhaps, in the morning,” Ignis says slowly, causing them to fall quiet, “Gladio and I should seek out the Crownsguard ourselves, see how the investigation is going. They can’t deny us if we are right there, demanding answers.” Gladio grunts in agreement.

“...it’s already morning,” Prompto tells him solemnly.

Ignis leans over and flicks him in the ear. He jolts, biting the inside of his cheek to keep from yelping. He throws a half-hearted glare over his shoulder, grinning when Ignis just winks almost cheekily at him.

Gladio throws an arm over his eyes against the slowly strengthening light. He dozes off to the warm and solid form of Noctis next to him, his knees pressing against Gladio’s thigh. 

* * *

 

Gladio and Ignis have gone somewhere, probably to bug Cor about the investigation, leaving Prompto and Noctis alone in the rooms. It’s the first time it’s just been two of them since the night before last, someone else a constant presence since yesterday morning.

Prompto comes out of the bathroom, steam curling over his skin from the shower, and finds Noctis awake, sitting on the edge of the bed and staring at his phone. His hands still shake, his face pale. He’s finally bitten through the skin of his lip, blood welling up to stain his teeth crimson.

He sighs at the sight, his heart breaking, and tosses his towel into the bathroom behind him, going to sit next to him. Noct doesn’t even flinch, sliding into the divot Prom’s made, pressing their shoulders together. Prompto looks at his phone, flinching at what greets him,

100fourteen_six. The black and white photo. And a new one that’s a three photo layout with a close up of his bruised and discolored arm, his mangled hand, and his ankle at an unnatural angle—a missed account, probably the one they ended up ignoring for Noct’s sake.

This close he can feel Noct’s uneven breathing, he can hear the whistling through his parting lips. Prompto carefully, slowly, telegraphing every one of his moves, pulls the phone from his grip, setting it to the side.

“Why are they doing this?” Noct asks suddenly, sounding oh-so young. “What did I do to them?”

Prompto slings an arm around his waist, curling a hand over his hip and resting his chin on his shoulder. “You did nothing,” he murmurs. “Whoever this is, is just a horrible person.” Noct sobs sharply. “You are the best person I know. You don’t deserve this.”

He bows his head, bangs falling over his eyes. “I don’t?”

“What?” Prompto gasps out. “What the hell, man?” Noctis doesn’t respond. “No, come on. We’re not doing his.” He physically grabs his friend’s shoulders, turning them so they’re facing each other more. “What. The. Hell?” he demands again.

Noctis refuses to meet his gaze. “Forget it,” he mumbles.

“Dude, no…”

He shrugs Prompto off. “Forget it,” he repeats firmly, something regal in his tone. “It was just a stray thought.”

Prompto lets his grip be shaken from his shoulders only to have them land lightly on his forearms. Noct doesn’t move from that. Now that he know, he can see a few faint white marks scattered on the inner part of his elbow. He remembers seeing the worst one, just below the bend in his arm, during gym once, the lights catching the puckered skin just enough he could see the play of shadows. He’d just brushed it off then, thinking it was...He doesn’t know anymore what he thought it was. Just that it was mundane, insignificant.

Guess not.

“Did those jackasses tell you something?” Prompto presses, shimmering with the type of rage he thought him capable of before. “Because, Noct, I can promise you whatever they said was a lie.”

Noctis’ lips thin out as he presses them together, his eyes growing wet with tears. He tries to blink them back, his eyelashes clumping together. Prom’s almost afraid he’s not going to reply in any way, but then—

“It’s not that they said anything. Not exactly,” Noct says quietly. He twists their arms so his hands are tight around Prompto’s forearms this time. “I just… They, uh…” He visibly struggles with the words, closing his eyes, face pinching. “The d-drugs they gave me… t-they were hallucinogenic. I...I saw things, h-heard—.”

Prompto stares at him in horror, face paling dramatically. He’d been thinking sedatives or tranquilizers. Not...Oh Gods. What sort of things had he been seeing then?—trapped in a room, surrounded by men that just kept hurting him, in so much pain? No wonder he struggled so much, seemed so scared, in that one video.

He folds Noctis into a hug, relieved when it’s not fought against. Noctis melts into his hold, pressing his face against the crook of Prom’s neck.

“I like cuddles,” he mumbles thickly.

Prompto lets out a watery laugh. “You say that now, but I remember this guy who literally phased when Gladio tried to bear hug him. You’re like a cat, one second perfectly fine with scratches, the next you attack the hand that provides the catnip.”

Noctis pokes him in the side. “‘m not a cat.”

He scratches the spot behind his ear, and Noct practically goes boneless, humming in pleasure. Prompto laughs again, pressing a ‘I told you so’ against his temple. Noct sniffs, but can’t argue anymore.

Their phones chiming finds them an hour later, sitting in front of the television, ignoring the show in order to guess the plot of the next unofficially announced Assassin’s Creed. Prompto checks it unthinkingly, wondering if it’s Gladio or Ignis with an update, only to find an unknown number mocking him.

[Unknown Number: 12.46p: ure no fun D:]

“Noct, wait—.”

He’s too late.

Noctis is already swiping his phone screen, already opening 100fourteen_seven. It’s that black and white one, like it’s the bastard’s favorite, and then another in color. Noct’s face clean of blood, but that only brings attention to the fact his hair is drenched flat against his forehead and his once white shirt is soaked through to sheerness His eyes are swollen, rimmed red, his chest expanded like he’s heaving for a breath. Panic sits in his expression like it was made for it and has only known it.

Noct startles him by jumping to his feet, reeling his arm back and throwing his phone across the room with a rage filled shout. It clangs against the main door, but only shatters when it hits the tile of the foyer.

“Noct!”

“No!” he all but screams, his face splotching red, eyes bright with emotion. Prompto jumps at the rawness of his voice. “I’m tired of this! It just keeps getting shoved in my face over and over again and I’m tired of this bullshit.” He shoves himself past Prompto’s legs, stumbling towards the door.

Prompto leaps to follow him, or stop him, he’s not sure. “Noct, please,” he begs. “Let’s talk about this. Don’t go out there. Stay here, with me. They’re going to figure it out.”

Noctis shoves a hand back, like he’s meaning to shove Prompto away. Static crackle in the air between them, making Prompto freeze. “Stop,” he sobs, scrabbling at the door knob. His hand shakes as he turns it and swings it open, letting it slam against the wall. “Stop. I can’t—I can’t do this.”

He could physically restrain him. Maybe not for long, Noct does have a good couple pounds of muscles on him and, you know, magic if that static means anything. But after wrestling with him and Gladio, and the few on the sly training sessions, he could probably keep him down until he’s calmed down a little bit.

But he’s thinking too slow, he’s hesitated too long.

Noct’s already out the door, disappearing into the maze that is the west wing of the Citadel.

He’s crying before he even realizes it, out of fear and frustration, his heart racing in his chest. Prompto fumbles for his shoes, hands shaking as he grabs his phone. He hovers over Gladio’s name, then Ignis’, before finally settling on Marshal Leonis’ newly acquired contact.

“Argentum? What’s wrong?” the Marshal demands immediately. “Did something happen to his Highness?”

Prompto sobs. “He ran!” he exclaims. “We got a text from a unknown number and I couldn’t stop him from looking at it. He exploded and ran out before I could stop him. I don’t know where he went. I’m sor—.”

“Breathe, Prompto,” the Marshal says. The use of his first name shuts him right up, his teeth clicking. “Did he take his phone?”

Prompto shakes his head. “N-No. It’s broken. He threw it against the wall.”

The Marshal swears quietly, says something far away, then comes back with, “What’s the unknown number this time?” Prompto recites it dutifully. “Check this,” he orders someone on his side. “Prompto, I need you to stay there. Ignis and Gladio are on their way.”

“They should help look for him,” Prompto says immediately. “I don’t need a babysitter, but Noct needs them. Please,” he begs. “I’m scared he’s gonna do something.”

“Calm down,” the Marshal says. “Stay there. If you need to, you can walk the corridor in case he didn’t go far, but whatever you do, do not leave the west wing. If Noctis comes back, someone needs to be waiting for him. And that needs to be you, okay?”

Prompto sucks in an unsteady breath, his chin trembling. “Okay,” he replies quietly. His next breath is stronger. “I can do that.”

“Good, Prompto, that’s good,” the Marshal says distractedly. The line crackles, something heavy covers the speaker, and his next words are muffled and barely understandable. Prompto strains to hear. “What? Are you serious?—No. Are you absolutely positive? Shit….Shit! Unbelievable.”

“Marshal?”

“We found the guy,” the Marshal says, suddenly clear and loud in his ear. Prompto’s knees go weak. “I have to go. If you do see Noctis, tell him we found the guy. Ignis and Gladio already joined the search, don’t worry about it.”

And then he’s hanging up, leaving Prompto’s ears ringing with the sudden silence and the overwhelming, dizzying relief that washes over him. His legs fold under him, crashing him to the ground. His phone drops to his lap and he covers his face with both hands, heaving breaths that aren’t quite sobs.

“Oh, Gods,” he says out loud, anything to cover the high noise in his ears. “Oh, fuck.”

* * *

 

Blood roars in Noctis’ ears, his breathing sharp in his chest. He blindly lurches out the door, stumbling down the corridor. He brushes against a decorative table, knocking off the vase. It shatters on the ground, big and little pieces, but he trudges through it without seeing, the ceramic cutting into his bare feet. He doesn’t feel it.

West wing. West wing. There’s a garden in the west wing, not as grand as the one off from the main hall, but still his favorite. It has a willow tree that dips into a clear pond full of frogs the color of leaves in the summer and lazy, spoiled koi fish that get excited when they realize someone’s approaching.

He turns in that direction, desperately hoping to ease the tightness that forming over his heart, a vice around his lungs. His footsteps leave bloody stains behind, showing off his tripping, shambling walk. He keeps his hand against the wall, using it to guide him as he follows more his memories of the path to the garden than his current sight. His hand hits glass eventually and he shoves open the door.

The smell of fresh soil, the sounds of running water, does nothing. Nothing at all. A sob cracks it way up his throat, burning it raw. He falls to his knees in the moist dirt, collapsing forward and just barely catching himself on his hands. The soil gives in easily to his fingers as he digs them into the ground, clinging to it and wishing, please oh please, that the world would just slow down, quiet down, let him off this ride, please, because he’s not having any fun.

Noctis cries, sobbing, pressing his forehead against the soil. Gods, he so tired of crying. He so tired of being weak, of feeling so out of control. He thought he was doing so well. It’d been years since the original event. He healed, physically, emotionally, mentally, he got over it. And then, Ignis showing him those photos...it was like a slap in the face and a punch in the gut all at once. Honestly, if it weren’t for Ignis and Prompto’s presence, he would've thrown himself out of the car right then and there just to get away.

His knees creak and ache as he crawls from his spot to under the willow tree. The branches brush his back, drawing up a shiver, and he curls against the trunk, knees pulled to his chest and arms around his legs. He clutches at his arms, nails digging into his skin so hard hard it hurts, so deep he begins to bleed.

Noct just digs them in even more.

Anything to keep the weird, floating feeling from snatching him up and sending him careening into the sky.

He tries to keep himself anchored in the here and now, his favorite place, the pain in his arms, but the running water from the pond’s filtration system and the gentle plop plop of the koi breaching the surface sends his mind a whirl, makes him think of that last photo he saw. The one that was just a hint, a preview, of what ended his time with those men.

It took him almost six months before he could take a bath again. A year before he was willing to submerge his head in water. The amount of times he broke down because he was even scared of fishing nearly killed him at one point. Pathetic, weak, ridiculous. Ignis told him it was natural, it was normal after such a traumatic experience, but he still felt that he was just moving so slow and making no progress. His favorite activity. Ruined.

All because of a cloth over his face and a bucket of water.

Noctis heaves, gasping. “N-No,” he says. “No, nonono, don’t th-think about it,” he tells himself. He covers his face, only to jerk them away when he ends up just covering his nose and mouth, making it harder to breathe.

He claws at his face in disgust, raking his nails across his skin. He can’t even breathe right! Nothing to obstruct him and he can’t even breathe!

The sound of the door creaking open makes him freeze, hands at his throat, falling to his collarbone, eyes wide like a rabbit caught by a hunter. He holds his breath despite how little oxygen sits in his lungs. Gods, if it’s...if it’s who he fears—.

“Noctis?”

Noct whines, his curled position loosening. He doesn’t dare move further than that. What if this is a trick? What if—what if it’s like those daemons that danced around him as the world swayed and twisted, those daemons that whispered cruel, disgusting things in his ears. What if he’s just seeing things? Hearing things? The amount of times he’d dreamed and hallucinated his friend saving him, the Kingsglaives showing up like big damn heroes, only to have the drugs pass through his system enough that he’s brought back to the present, still tied up and in so much pain.

“Noctis?” he father calls again.

Between the branches he sees his dad, tentatively entering the garden. Clarus stays at the doorway, eyes scanning the area dutifully. He aches to crawls between the curtains of the willow and falls into his dad’s arms, where he’s always been safe and warm. At five, at eight, at ten, at thirteen. But the fear that this isn’t real keeps him rooted in spot.

His dad stands on the edge of the pond, staring down at the koi as they greet him with wide open mouths. A smile twitches the corner of his lips, but it doesn’t make it further than that. He looks sad, standing there. “Have you see Noctis?” he asks the fish.

Noctis clamps down on a incredulous giggle, just not quick enough. He makes a half-strangled noise that draws his dad’s attention, his head jerking to the side and making eye contact with Noctis in seconds.

“Noct,” he dad breathes, looking so relieved. He drops his cane to the ground and slowly gets to his knees, wincing. Noctis opens his mouth to tell him to stop, that he doesn’t need to, but his words are waved away before he can get a sound out. Regis walks to him on his knees, not bothered by the dirt sticking to his suit. He parts the willow branches like a curtain, smiling a sad smile down at Noctis. “We’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

He can’t help the whimper. “‘m sorry,” he mumbles. His eyes sting with tears. Oh, come on. Stop crying, damn it. It’s like he’s eight all over again, a child with no control over his emotions.

Regis reaches for him slowly, asking permission with his eyes than his words. Noctis flinches away, shaking his head, then almost immediately regrets it when his dad’s expression crumbles even as he retracts his outstretched arms. But Noct can’t bring himself to change his mind. His skin crawls with another person nearby, even it is his dad.

“That’s all right,” his dad says reasonably. He moves to sit cross-legged, the willow branches draping over his head and shoulders like a cape from a faery tale. It’s almost a mirror image from when he was ten, still healing from the daemon attack and failing to walk like he’d been doing his whole life previously. He’d hidden away here one night, frustrated by his lack of ability and his crutches, and his dad came to find him. “I won’t touch you until you say it’s okay,” his dad tells him. “But I want you to know, they found the man posting the pictures.”

Noctis reels back in shock, the back of his head hitting the tree trunk. “Wh-What?” he stutters out.

Regis nods firmly. “A member of the Crownsguard. His name is Rufus. He’d been assigned to archive case files from the last decade and a computer glitch gave him access to yours.” He settles his hands in his lap, palms facing up and towards Noctis. “He claims the only reason he did any of this was for fun.” Noctis chokes. “And a disdain for the Kingsglaive’s magic, the fact they keep ‘showing up’ the ‘guard. He thought he’d use the opportunity to get back at all of us. Noctis—.” He looks up, meeting his dad’s soft hazel eyes. “He had nothing to do with the men who took you.”

Noctis ducks his head, clutching his hands to his chest. “I don’t think that makes me feel any better,” he mumbles.

“I wouldn’t think so,” Regis admits. “But what if I told you that Gladiolus certainly showed him why the Amicitias are the King’s Shields?”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” his dad confirms with a grin Noctis can’t help return though it’s a ghost of his normal one. “I saw him. His face looks like it met pavement, several times. Gladiolus looked very smug. Sir Ulric looked frustrated he didn’t get to the man first” He pauses. “They’re worried about you. Especially poor Mr. Argentum.”

Noctis sighs, his chest warm at the thought of his friends. “Everyone saw,” he says quietly, a soft sort of brokenness to his voice. Everyone saw how weak he was. Everyone saw what he went through. The media is going to latch onto it, they probably saved the pictures as soon as they saw them and now the photos are going to be in the tabloids until the cease and desist letters finally put the fear of Bahamut into them.

That could be days from now, weeks, months.

“Cor is already working on the news outlets,” Regis assures him. “We can’t confirm the silence of most of the outlandish tabloids, but the main news networks won’t breathe a word past ‘we’re so glad the Crown Prince is doing well.’” He looks like if his word isn’t adhered to then fire will rain from the skies in defense of his son.

Noctis is grateful. So unbelievably grateful to be loved like this.

Father and son stare at each other. Regis, prim and proper except the slightly frazzled way his hair sticks up like he’d run his hand through it and the dirt on his trousers. Noctis, in oversized sweats, hair limp and greasy, dirt smeared on his face and blood on his feet.

He falls into his father’s arms with a sob, curling into his lap as his dad’s arms wrap around him tightly. Calloused fingers run through his hair, scritching lightly at his scalp. Noctis closes his eyes, sighing gustily. Regis’ chest moves under his head when he chuckles.

“I feel like I’ve lost control.”

His dad hums thoughtfully. “Understandable, but luckily, control is something that’s easily taken back,” he says soothingly, never stopping the pets through his hair. “Noctis, I try to do everything in my power to protect you. I’m so sorry I failed you again.”

Noctis feels himself grow heavier as the adrenaline fades. “You didn’t fail me,” he all but slurs. “You’re here now.” Regis sobs against crown of his head. “It’s really over?” he asks with too much hope.

Regis kisses his hairline, hugging him impossibly tighter. “Yes, my star,” he says, all choked up. “It’s over. All of it’s over.”

They sit there, Noctis soothed by his father’s heartbeat, until Clarus reminds them of the cuts and ceramic in Noct’s feet, and the dirt in the wounds. Regis helps Noctis stand, Clarus helps Regis stand. Then, together and awkwardly, they walk to his rooms, leaning on each other.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Didn't want to do anything sexual, which is what this prompt Could be taken primarily as. So, this is what we got.
> 
> Hope you liked it!


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